Sugar!
by Loupee
Summary: A moment in the bakery that takes place somewhere between chapters 14 and 15 of Decided on a handshake.


_**I'm posting this as a separate out-take as when read with the rest of the story it halted the flow, and let's face it this is a pretty pointless bit of smut. That said I hope you enjoy!**_

 **Sugar!**

"Katniss?" Peeta asks.

"Hmm?" I hum absent-mindedly, as I look up from where I realise I have been wiping down the same section of the work counter for the last ten minutes.

"I've run out of brown sugar and this recipe needs it. Do you think you could fetch some more from the store room for me, please?"

"Yeah, sure," I nod, welcoming the distraction, however brief, from my thoughts of Delly. She was in the shop again yesterday. I dread it when she comes in, as inevitably it leads me to thinking about her and Peeta. I don't want to think about _them_ , but I can't help it. I hate the fact that she has been with him like that, that she has such an intimate knowledge of my husband. Rationally, I know I'm being ridiculous. Their relationship was a long time before Peeta and I got together, and there's even a slim chance that I might have been able to curb my jealousy if she hadn't attempted to resurrect their affair after we were married. What really makes my blood boil is that I'm certain she still believes there's a hope of rekindling it. The whole damn situation is made worse by the inadequacies I find as I compare myself to Delly physically. It's like she senses my insecurities, as she certainly flaunts her _advantages_ as much as she can.

I know I can't avoid her altogether. Delly is married to Peeta's brother and lives across the street, but the last week it seems like she's been an almost constant presence in the shop. It's her mother's birthday today and Delly ordered a birthday cake. It's a beautiful cake, with painstakingly intricate flowers moulded out of icing arranged on top and around the sides, which Peeta has hand painted to get the shading just right. I know this sort of decorative work is the part of his job he enjoys the most, and deep down I know he would spend just as long decorating anyone else's cake, but I still doesn't mean that I like how long he's devoted to it, or how often Delly has popped in to chat with him. She has been in on a daily basis to check on the cake's progress. She has an uncanny knack of picking busy times when I'm helping Prim at the counter, so that Delly ends up in the kitchen alone with Peeta. The images of the last time I saw them alone there and the way she touched him always plague my mind during her visits. I'm not sure how I've had the restraint to not charge in there and break her slutty little fingers!

It's had me in a bad temper all week, and I've invariably taken it out on Peeta and I know I've been a bitch to live with. It all came to a head last night in a fiery row that resulted in me slamming the bedroom door on Peeta, and him sleeping on the sofa. I did eventually apologise this morning and allow him to reassure me that the time he's spent on the cake has nothing to do with his and Delly's past, but I still keep thinking about the way she was dressed yesterday.

She was wearing a belted dress that accentuated the curves of her waist and hips, and she'd left so many buttons open at the neck that there was more of her breasts showing than covered. I'm convinced she hadn't been wearing it in the shoe shop all day but that had changed especially to come to the bakery.

I wipe my hands on the front of my trousers, and look at the utilitarian way I'm dressed in comparison. Perhaps I should put in more effort. With a sigh, I head to the storeroom that stands on one side of the kitchen. It has a big heavy door that has a tendency to close by itself so I prop it open with a box so that I don't have to fiddle with the handle once I have my hands full, and pull the light cord.

Deep shelves line the walls on either side of the room, leaving only a narrow standing space between them. I check the shelves where the sugar is usually kept but there's none there. Strange. I'm sure that some came in the last delivery. I scan the other shelves before spotting a bag on the top shelf. I stretch up on my toes, but the packet is just out of reach. I curse out loud that I didn't think to bring the stepladder in with me.

I am just attempting to climb the shelving instead of having to go fetch the ladder when I hear the door slam shut, making me swear again. There's something very unnerving about being shut in here even with the light on and the knowledge that Peeta is just on the other side of the door.

"That's filthy mouth you have there, Mrs Mellark."

"Peeta?" I'm answered by two hands about my waist lifting me down from my precarious footholds on the second shelf.

I try to turn about as he sets me on the floor, but taking hold of my hands he places them firmly on the shelf in front of me, effectively keeping me in place.

"What are you doing?" I ask, turning my head to look at him.

"What I've been thinking about all morning."

The look in his eyes makes me bite my lip and the muscles in my lower belly clench. I've come to know that look very well over the last few months. I feel a thrill of anticipation with the knowledge of what pleasure usually follows that look.

He removes his hands from mine, and again I try to turn about to face him, but he grabs my waist, holding me in position. "Don't. Stay exactly where you are," he instructs.

I swallow, my breath already starting to fall heavily with my increasing excitement.

I don't move as I watch his fingers unfasten my belt and zipper, and then, as one hand slides inside my trousers, whilst his other moves to roughly grasp my breast. His fingers simultaneously begin to rub over the material of my underwear and tease my nipple through my shirt.

"Peeta," I groan as my back arches, thrusting my chest into his grasp as my body begins to react to his touch. I let my head lean to one side to let his lips and then his teeth worry the skin along the length of my neck. Gasping and moaning as he roughly sucks and torments my skin in a way that is sure to leave a mark, but I don't want him to stop it feels too good.

"I've spent all morning thinking about my wife," Peeta growls. "About bringing you in here and fucking you until you scream my name." His voice is loud and forceful matching the growing assertiveness of his fingers. "Thinking about how wet I'd find you," he continues, his breath hot against my neck.

I let out a whimper as his fingers slide beneath the elastic of my underwear to touch me. "Damn Katniss, you're so wet for me." He groans loudly as his fingers take up their previous movement, this time without the cotton barrier of my panties. I rock my hips moving with him, increasing the friction of his fingers, and moaning every time they swipe over the throbbing bundle of nerves that is screaming out for his attention.

"Who makes you this wet, Katniss?" he demands.

"You," I breathe.

"Who else? Who else do you think about fucking?" he demands loudly, and I'm shocked. He knows there's only ever been him. I though he knew he had no reason to still be jealous of Gale.

"Tell me who else you think about fucking, Katniss?" he repeats even louder.

"No one."

"I can't hear you." His fingers are alternating between the sensitive bundle of nerves and circling my entrance, just enough to tease without the satisfaction of entering me. I push against his hand but he moves it away altogether. "Tell me," he orders.

"You," I tell him and his fingers recommence their torturous, teasing dance.

"Louder," he demands. "I want to hear you say it."

It's clear he's not going to give in and let me have what I want until I submit. "You! I only ever think about you! There's only ever been you," I relent in frustration, shouting my answer although my cheeks are burning red. Peeta knows I'm still not good at talking or telling him exactly what I want or feel. He rewards my compliance with his fingers thrusting inside me, at the same time he pinches hard on my nipple sending a jolt of pleasure through me.

"Do you want me now?" he asks.

I nod, letting out a whimper of agreement.

"That's not good enough. I need you to tell me exactly what you want, Katniss."

"I want you."

"My fingers?" I shake my head in response to his question.

"My tongue?" I'm torn. I moan as I imagine his mouth on me, but I'm so ready for him I just want to feel him inside me.

I shake my head again.

"Then tell me. I want to hear you say it."

"I want you to fuck me Peeta," I practically shout.

His fingers are gone and my trousers are roughly yanked around my ankles. "Don't let go of the shelves," he commands. "Or I'll stop. Do you understand?"

I nod eagerly, my body crying out for him to fill me. I wouldn't want him like this always, but there are times when rough and commanding Peeta is exactly what I need.

He pulls my hips back, so my back is almost flat. His palm smoothes over the skin of my right cheek before moving between my legs to cup my sex. I give a satisfied groan as his fingers once again begin their ministrations.

"Do you have any idea how sexy you look?" he growls loudly, and I hear the jingle of his belt buckle being unfastened by his other hand and the rasp of his zipper. His boot nudges my feet further apart and I compliantly widen my stance for him.

"Damn, Katniss," he moans as he palms my ass again and then I feel the hard length of his dick pressing between my cheeks. He repositions himself so that he slips over the hot, wet flesh between my legs. Sliding again and again as if he's torturing me with dragging this out.

"Please, Peeta, I want you."

With big strong hands gripping my hips firmly, he eases into me slowly and deeply, and I moan at the sensation of fullness.

"Fuck, you're so tight. You feel incredible." He groans as he pulls out before filling me slowly again. "Is that what you want Katniss? Is that how you want me to fuck you?

I shake my head. "Harder."

He does exactly as I ask, picking up his speed and intensity until the shelving is protesting and the tins and packets on them rattling and clanking. Something falls off, crashing to the ground, but neither of us pays it any attention.

"I think about this all the time, about being with my wife," he proclaims loudly.

I answer him exactly how I know he wants. "I think about you Peeta… ahhh… Peeta…. I think about you all the time."

"Who else?"

"No one," I reiterate my earlier point. "I only think about you, no one else. I only ever think about you. I never want there to be anyone but you."

His movements become more forceful, his fingers digging into my hips gripping me tightly as he drives into me and I know I'm being loud, but I can't contain my moans or my demands that were so difficult to express only seconds before but which now tumble out as I beg him to go faster.

"And it's always been you. I've only ever loved you," he grunts loudly through gritted teeth. It's his words as much as anything else that sends me careening over the edge. The tightening intensity having built in my body until was too much contain, and I come crying his name out loudly, just as he desired. He follows me moments later in his own climax, proclaiming my own name.

I finally let go of the shelf, my arms limp and heavy from the exertion and lean back against him, panting for air. Looking up, I see the requested box of sugar above my head, now sitting precariously on the edge of the top shelf.

"I never did reach your sugar," I tell him, with an exhausted sigh.

"That's okay. I didn't really need any," he admits, kissing my neck. He withdraws and I turn to face him before draping my arms loosely over his shoulders to support my tired body. "I love you, Katniss Mellark," he says, leaning his forehead against mine.

"I guess I'm pretty fond of you too," I say with a nonchalant shrug. He rewards my insolence by slapping my still naked behind and making me yelp.

….

I'm hoping to sneak through the shop to the stairs that lead upstairs, to freshen up in the bathroom, unnoticed, but the shop is empty except for Primrose, who stares at me with righteous contempt.

"You nearly killed Mr Whyte, you know?" she accuses.

"What?" I swallow thickly and hope she doesn't mean what I think she does.

"He went bright red and I honestly thought he was going to have a coronary right in the middle of the shop.

I gape at her as she continues. "The store room is right on the other side of here," she states slowly as if talking to an imbecile and points at the wall behind the counter. "And the wall really isn't _that_ thick."

I put my head in my hands, not wishing to know any more but she doesn't drop it. "Mr Whyte's breathing went so weird, you should have heard how heavy it was!"

"Oh no," I groan, before peaking out between my fingers to ask. " Please tell me there was no one else here?"

Apart from the old man you nearly killed and your younger sister whom you've scarred for life?" She queries and I grimace. "No. Just Delly."

"Delly?"

"Yes, she said Peeta told her to come collect the cake at 3 o'clock, which was pretty much exactly when you two started proclaiming your exclusivity and you demanded that Peeta…"

"Alright, alright, I get the picture," I quickly interrupt. I look at the offending wall, behind where Peeta is still in the storeroom clearing up whatever it was that smashed falling off the shelf. Is it possible that he planned the whole thing? That he timed it just right so that Delly would hear? Was this his way of reassuring me that I have nothing to be jealous of, whilst at the same time sending a message loud and clear, literally, to Delly about how he and I feel about each other.

"Delly left pretty quickly once you two started shouting and banging against the walls so loudly it sounded like you were about to come through," Primrose continues. "She said Peeta could bring the cake round to her after closing time."

 _Over my dead body_ , I scowl. "You know what? I'll take it over now," I decide.

"You might want to turn your collar up before you go. You got a bit of a mark, just there," Primrose points to her own neck indicating where I know Peeta's mouth has left a mark on me. She raises her eyebrows at me disapprovingly, but I don't blush this time. I feel far too smug to be embarrassed.

The cake is boxed up in the kitchen, waiting for collection. I pick it up and then, changing my mind, set it down again. I unfasten the first couple of buttons on my shirt and widen my collar to expose as much of my neck as possible.

Then, with a sly grin, I pick up the cake again. For once, I am going to really enjoy seeing Delly.

* * *

 ** _Have a good weekend._**

 ** _L_**


End file.
